The Circle

'Were they encouraging, those few private words?' Thomasine asked.

'Helpful, more than encouraging. After all, we didn't come to be buttered up, did we? Nice to hear, no doubt, but no damned use to serious writers. Constructive criticism was the order of the day.'

'Was it really helpful, Tudor?'

'To a degree, yes. He told me it was a matter of pitching it right. I tend to treat the reader as an old chum with a shared sense of humour, giving him the occasional nudge in the ribs. Edgar Blacker didn't care for that. Wanted a more neutral style, simply telling the story without signposting the funny bits. I could see what he meant.'

'Anything else?'

His eyes flicked left and right. 'Well, he was a little sceptical about some of my adventures, and I had to tell him straight that everything happened just as I describe it. He didn't seem willing to accept that an ordinary fellow like me could have been on friendly terms with so many of the great and good. As you know, Thomasine, I take folk as I find them, never mind if they've climbed Everest or won Wimbledon, and they always respond. They're only men and women like you and me. We all have to go to the bathroom, don't we? When you think of it like that, treating them as equals, you can get along with anyone.'

'Was he interested in publishing you?' Thomasine asked.

'If I was willing to make the changes he suggested I think he'd have jumped at the chance.'

'Is that what he said?'

'Not precisely.'

'What did he say?'

'About the book?' Tudor was stalling now. 'He said it needed beefing up, whatever that means.'

'Not enough substance.'

'Something like that. There was a danger the reader might think I was a name-dropper if I couldn't say something more startling about my friends in the public eye.'

This sounded more likely. Bob tried to look mystified by the idea of Tudor as a name-dropper. 'More startling? What — badmouthing them?'

'You've got it. He was after sensation. Well, if this had been a work of fiction I wouldn't have minded, but it's my life story, for pity's sake, and these are my friends. I can't stab them in the back.'

'Out of the question,' Thomasine said.

'I 'm glad you agree.'

'And is that what you told him?'

'More or less. Look, what was said between him and me doesn't matter in the least. We should be turning the spotlight on some of the others.'

Bob kept the spotlight where it was. 'Was that your first meeting with Blacker, that evening at the circle?'

Tudor's eyes gave the answer.

'You knew him already?'

'I wouldn't put it so strongly as that.'

'But. .?'

In desperation he started to flannel. 'There are degrees of knowing, aren't there? If you know somebody in the biblical sense, you ought to be married to them. My contact with Blacker was way down the scale. We'd met on one or two occasions, no more.'

This could be the breakthrough. Bob was pleased he'd asked the question. 'When?'

'A few years ago. I sold him some insurance. That's my job.'

'You insured him?'

'My firm did. I'm just a cog in the machinery.'

'What kind of insurance? Life?'

'I can't go into it. Confidentiality.'

'Fire?'

'Good Lord, no,' Tudor said. 'Please respect my position here. I could get into fearful trouble if head office find out I've discussed a client's business.'

'The client is dead,' Thomasine said.

'And my dealings with him have nothing to do with the case.'

'Did he ever make a claim?'

Tudor made a sweeping movement with his open hand. 'If you persist with this, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Believe me, it has no bearing. End of discussion.'

'But we have established that you and he knew each other before the night he died,' Thomasine said.

'Slightly. Can we leave it there?'

'After the meeting — the circle meeting, I mean,' Bob said, 'did you see him again?'

'Before he died? Not me. Why all this interest in me? Have you spoken to any of the others?'

'You're not the first,' Bob said.

'You should talk to our blonde charmer, Sharon. She's not a writer. She's never read anything out. She just sits and scribbles on her notepad all the time, doodles, not words. What's she doing, coming to a writers' circle and making no contribution whatsoever?'

They left without discussing Sharon.

That same evening, the author of 'The Sussex Witchcraft Trials' called on the next Tolkien and made a bold suggestion. 'I'm looking for a partner,' Naomi told Zach in the converted railway carriage that was his home in Selsey, 'and I can't think of anyone better than you.'

'For what?' Zach said. Confident and able as he was, secure in his own home, he still felt uneasy under the hyperthyroid gaze of those brown eyes.

'For our mutual benefit.' But the tone of her voice didn't make it sound so inviting.

'Oh yeah?'

'You and I have certain things to offer each other, wouldn't you say?'

This hit Zach like a poleaxe.

'How do you mean?' He was stunned, weak at the knees and disbelieving, but to be honest with himself he'd never had an offer like this from a woman. He wasn't every girl's idea of a sexy hunk. As for Naomi, well, she scared most people rigid with her steely looks, but she was probably younger than she appeared and she had the body of a tennis player.

'A way of bringing out the best in each of us.'

His thoughts were racing now. What would Basil say if his wife had a fling? Maybe Basil wasn't giving her what she wanted. He was a pretty old guy, quite a few years her senior. He might be grateful.

Zach heard himself saying, 'You've got me interested.'

'Good. It's obvious you have a good imagination.'

True, and it was working overtime. 'Thanks.'

'Unlike me,' she said. 'I stick to facts.' She gave him a long look.

What fact does she want from me? he thought. The size of my jigger? 'So?'

'There's some risk attached to this, and I must ask you to keep it between the two of us.'

'No problem,' he said. Some risk, huh? Was it outdoor sex she wanted?

She surprised him by saying, 'I had a look inside the burnt-out cottage.'

That would be kinky. Thinking about it, he wasn't so sure he wanted to go along with this any more.

'You mean Edgar Blacker's place?'

'Yes.'

'You went inside? What for?'

'For the truth, of course. He was murdered and Maurice McDade has been charged with it. I don't believe for one moment that Maurice is the arsonist. Do you?'

Zach was unequal to this twist in the plot. 'I don't know. Haven't thought about it.'

'Well, it's time you did,' she said. 'This is why I'm confiding in you. I have my own ideas who the murderer might be, and I'm collecting evidence, but I can't see my way to putting it on record without risking a libel action. There's a way round it, and this is where you come in.'

'Oh?'

'We dress it up as fiction using your gift with words.'

She wanted him to collaborate in a book.

'But I'm a fantasy writer. I don't do crime.'

'You have the gift. I'll give you the plot. All you have to do is get into the mind of the killer and make it convincing. Together we can turn out a bestseller.'

'It's not my scene.'

'Rubbish. Where's your sense of adventure?'

'Can't you work with someone else?'

'Who? Basil? He's a gardener, not a writer.'

In desperation, he cast around for another suggestion. 'Dagmar? She does fiction.'

'She does daydreams for sex-starved women. And she's no damned good at it. I want a real writer.'

'But I'm working on a book already.'

'Take a break, Zach. When you come back to it your batteries will be recharged.'